


Cry, Wolf

by unicornsandbutane



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Angst, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Elvis Presley - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornsandbutane/pseuds/unicornsandbutane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Engineer’s got a new shadow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cry, Wolf

He calls me all sorts of pretty things. Pet names and endearments, most of which are, admittedly, unfitting. He says them in French, and I’m sure he knows I understand him, so he puts special emphasis on his words. He gets creative. He doesn’t merely pull common phrases out of some repertoire to hide with a wink and a foreign tongue. No, I’m no ‘sugar heart’ to him. Truth of the matter is, to him, I’m not anything.

Messing around with a Spy is bad news. The enemy Spy is a goddamned death sentence. But what can I say? He was a prectical problem, and it seemed like an elegant solution when the opportunity presented itself. When he presented himself. Sure as heck it was suspicious. Did he really think I’d believe he had honest intentions, slipping up behind me and depositing on top of my dispenser a can of Red Shed beer, still ice-cold somehow in the sweltering heat and with condensation clinging to the tin? He didn’t sap my buildings just then. He merely spirited himself away like a goddamned stage actor, leaving me with this stupid can-shaped calling card sweating out its chill in the desert air. 

No, I didn’t think it was poisoned. But that didn’t make me fool enough to drink it.

Nevermind it was my prefered brand. That really ground my gears, y’know? Having him rub it in my face that he knew personal details about me like that. He was flaunting it, and I’d sooner die than have that sonn’bitch make a fool out of me. 

But you know, the best way to bowl ‘em over is to let them think they’ve already won. That’s what I told myself, then. 

No, I didn’t drink the damned beer, and I knew he’d be watching to see if I did, but I grabbed it with my gunslinger (no reactive substances on the outside of the can) and put it in my tool box (it didn’t have any hidden mechanisms inside, I could tell by the pitch of the liquid hitting the pop top) to be analyzed later. I tipped my helmet up, and glanced around as if looking for him, and wondered what he’d think of that. I wondered if he’d thought I’d accept this offering in the first place.

Well, I’d just have to see what his plans were. 

He stuck a sapper on my sentry when he passed by again, as if perfunctorily adhering to the conditions of his job. Pyro summarily killed him and smashed the sapper to little sparking bits. I gave my team mate a nod and got a rubber-gloved salute in return, and after that, the Spy seemed even more determined. He wasn’t playing around anymore, thank the Lord, and I daresay he got me a couple times.

But I’d prefer that to the stupid business with the beer can.

I was just about loading its contents into the mass spectrometer I whipped up that night in my workshop, when who should bypass my alarm system and stride in, moving like a cat’s shadow, but the damned Spy himself.

He didn’t bother cloaking, but he walked very carefully, clearly anticipating a trap. 

And he was right to, but I reached under the drafting table to disarm it at the last moment before he would have tripped it. I just wanted to see if he would notice it.

It didn’t look like he did.

I turned in my swivel chair and regarded him with the jag in my lap, its weight comfortable in my hand. 

"Evenin’," I greeted mildly. 

"Good evening, Monsieur."

His face was partially obscured so I swung my desk lamp on its hinges to spotlight him. 

"What can I do ya for?" I put on my best howdy-do grin, and leaned forward a bit in my seat. It felt good to watch him swallow thickly. 

"I realized my little gift may not have been the best course of action. I can see you were suspicious of it…" He gestured to the array of tubes and wires and moving parts all convening on a few cubic milliliters of beer. I raised a brow at him behind my goggles. "And I suppose that is to be expected. Well. Let me try again." 

With that, he removed his mask. 

He combed a hand through his hair a little self-consciously, but it was obvious he put effort into slicking his hair to lie flat under the clingy material. He had a scar that cut through his five o’clock shadow; a little crescent from his jaw and curling towards his cheekbone on the right side. It also appeared as though somebody had tried to cut his throat, by the looks of a dotted line of a scar starting under his left ear, but that they’d been interrupted before they could really get going. He tucked the mask into his pocket and awaited appraisal. 

I don’t know what he expected from me, as I don’t believe a spy keeps any regular habits. I believe a Spy will always change his habits, to suit his means, and may also contrive to develop known habits, if breaking them later will serve him. 

But, I pretended like it was some big reveal, waiting for him to show the cards in his hand, and not the ones up his sleeve. He stepped forward.

"You seem like a man who appreciates honesty," he said. A lock of his hair (jet black, greying at the temples) fell over his brow and he flicked it away. "So I will make my best effort; though, I will admit, I am sorely out of practice." He smiled, and I know he was going for  _charming,_  but it just made my stomach turn sour to see it. 

"What are you on about?" I’d just about think he was suicidal if I wasn’t sure he’d tampered with the camera. I’d let that woman Miss Pauling deal with all that. 

"Why—" and then, he straightened, tugged his sleeves, and seemed to resettle. "I am making a proposition." I could see it pained him to be so blunt. He was accustomed to making suggestions instead of statements, allusions instead of announcements. I leaned back against my desk.

"What kind of proposition would that be?" I could kill him on the spot, and it wouldn’t even be difficult, but I had put in for the long-haul, and I was waiting to see what he’d do. 

"I very much suspect you know what I mean. You’re toying with me." He stared me down, but then, he sighed, and closed his eyes. He was resigned. "Very well, I’ll play along. I hoped we could meet for more pleasurable liasons— something more intimate than killing one another."

"Killin’ you  _is_  pleasurable,” I told him. “And intimate.” 

He swallowed again. 

"Yes, well," he said, almost distractedly. "Perhaps something off-the-books. You’re a smart man, and I’ve made my life’s work out of not getting caught. I do not doubt that between the two of us, we could keep these meetings our little secret."

"Dontcha think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself?"

"How is that?"

"What even makes you think I’d be interested in you? I think you’re aware of all the reasons not to be." I didn’t think I needed to list them, especially since he’d probably have a contradiction to each one. 

"Well I hardly think you’re the sort of man who needs to be romanced and gradually seduced. Though, I am not averse to doing just that, if it is what you want." He’d stepped closer again, pulling his gloves tighter. "I could bring you begonias instead of beer cans, if you wished. Would you like me to sing to you? I’m told I have a very pleasant tenor." 

I frowned at him and he shucked up a shoulder, almost coquettishly. 

"Ah," he murmured, looking at me from under his lashes, "I’ve always loved how difficult you are. I think it’s what first attracted me to you. That or the taboo."  

Time to call his bluff. 

"You get off on the danger, Spook? That why you’re comin’ round here? Or, are ya actually gonna ask me t’ fuck you?" 

He flicked his hair again.

"I was getting to that," he replied sounding just a little put out, though he covered it with what I’m sure he hoped was a rogueish grin. I spread my knees a little wider where I sat and watched his eyes widen. Boy, he had the act down but good. 

Haltingly, he approached. When he stood over me and I had to tilt my head back to keep his gaze, he reached out to touch my face. He moved slowly, trying to sense any negations before they came, and then his gloved fingertips were at my cheekbone, trailing down to curl under my chin. I could only grit my teeth as he made my height obvious and what’s more, treated me like a woman. 

"Might I procure just a little favour from you?" he asked lightly. It was a little early for him to be getting things out of me. Presumably he’d started this little farce to get at my blueprints, or to get a look at the prototypes hidden under their tarps, but wasn’t it supposed to go that he won my trust first and then betrayed me? 

He was just too damn confident.

He leaned down, and he had to crouch a little, but he aligned our faces. I remember wondering if he was just gonna go for it or if he’d wait for me to initiate, but then his lips were on mine and it was clear he was taking great pains to exhibit some skill in the arena. He kissed me and kissed me until I decided to humour him and moved my mouth with his. He groaned almost too deeply at the first touch of my tongue to his, and then he was crawling into my lap and wrapping arms about my neck and pressing close to me, as if starved for this kind of attention. I found even that (especially that) very hard to believe. 

Soon he was grinding against my lower belly, his fancy trousers catching on my rough overalls. But, instead of complaints about the state of his precious suit, small noises rose in his throat, and he clutched at my back, and kissed down my jaw only to be drawn right back to my lips. He was getting hard in his slacks.

"So what’s this favor you wanted, then?" I asked, breaking away and actually impressed at how he got his face to flush like that. 

He dropped his face into my shoulder and moaned, pushing his hips against me in a long, slow roll.

"I meant it to only be the kiss, but… ah—" He sounded breathless, and continually bucked into my front, and I thought he might be laying it on a little thick with all the moaning and gasping and whatnot. 

"That always happen to ya when y’get to kissin’?" I indicated his erection tenting his pants.

"Ah, no. Not always." He even managed to look a little ashamed. "Can you forgive me for this, how shall I say… mishap?" 

I wondered just how much control he’d relinquish, how much he’d pretend. 

"That depends," I answered, pulling him back by the hair to catch his eyes, knowing he couldn’t see mine through the goggles I still wore. "How are you going to make it up to me?" 

It was not my best line, but he smirked at it all the same, canting his hips so as to suggest something a little more rigorous. I decided to push it a little further. 

"Well then," I said, giving him a vicious smile, "Why dontcha g’wan and lay down on that cot right there so I can tie you down and have my way with you?" 

I waited for his reaction, knowing it would inform my next decisions. 

His eyes slid over to the spare mattress pushed into the corner of the workshop. He looked at the solid steel frame on which it sat, and the bolts that fastened the legs to the floor. He took in the simple flannel blanket and the camping pillow. His gaze fell on me again. 

"I suppose it should be no surprise you wish to bind me. Well," he made to back off of my lap, "If that is the only way I shall have you, then so be it."

This was a more honest-sounding response than I’d initially anticipated. I’d thought he would feign coyness again and flit over to the bed immediately, then find some way to foil my knots. He seemed to have committed full-scale to this ruse.

He stood, his cock an obscene shape in his trousers, and picked his way over the cot, tapping one of the legs with his shoe. “How should I be?” he asked, looking over his shoulder. 

I analyzed him for a moment before realizing he was asking if he should undress or not. 

"Down to your skivvies is fine for now," I instructed, still seated in my swivel chair, and leaning back to watch him. Would he attempt to entice me with a striptease?

He unbuttoned his coat with subtle precision. It fell off his shoulders and he cast about for a place to hang it, finally settling on folding it over once and laying it at the foot of the bed. So, too, went his vest, his tie, and his collared shirt. Then, he sat to remove his shoes and place them discreetly under the bed, to unclasp his sock garters and roll down his nylon trouser socks, to tuck socks and garters both into their respective shoes. He stood again to unbutton his trousers, and it made my blood boil how he made a show of being almost shy to do so, glancing up at me from under his lashes with his hair falling into his face again.  He paused just a moment with his fingers (still in their gloves, the rat) poised on the shining navy-blue button, before he squeezed it out of its hole and inched his fly down. 

When his suitpants lay folded with the rest of his clothing, at the foot of the bed, he straightened up to stand there, on the cold concrete, in nothing but Lycra shorts and an undershirt, and those damnable omnipresent gloves. He shrugged at me, the ornery, instigating polecat, and I stared him down. 

"Shall I… perhaps lay on my belly? Or would you prefer me face up?" He gestured toward the cot. "I would rather face you, if I am allowed the choice."

"Imagine you don’t much like having yer back exposed, now do ya?" I challenged.

"That is true. I don’t. Besides which I should like to see your face."

I knew having his back to the room would unsettle him, and might count as a point in my favor, but I would miss any telling twitches in his face, any outward signs that he was about to attempt something stupid. 

"On yer back, then, Spook. Hands up over yer head." 

He stretched himself out on the cot, as carefully as he could, and placed his closed fists at each corner of the mattress. I suppose he anticipated the way I intended to tie him. 

Extension cords were much closer to hand than ropes were, so that’s what I used. Still with my trusty wrench within reach, I approached the cot, coils of extension cord looped over my fingers. 

"Now, hold still, and don’t do anythin’ you’ll regret," I warned him, taking his right wrist and beginning to wrap and knot the cord. Perhaps not as flexible as rope, so I couldn’t knot it as tight, but the rubber insulation provided a friction that would be difficult to fight. 

I lashed that wrist to the bedframe, utilizing the holes bored through the metal and a series of complicated knots. The Spy, meanwhile, stared at the ceiling. I would have thought he’d watch the way I tied each knot so he could untie it, later. Damned snake, basically boasting that he’d be able to get free without watching, just by lying there in silence. He waited patiently while his second wrist was bound; of course he did, he was so goddamn sure he could weasel out of the hold. Lord it made me angry.

I watched him testing the bonds, pulling against their strength and tightness. As if satisfied, he then relaxed back onto the small pillow, his thighs twitching. His erection had gone down considerably, but it hadn’t lost interest entirely, so I decided to run a quick experiment. 

I put my bare hand on his ankle, just to see what he’d do. 

He jumped a little, then looked down the line of his body at me, and relaxed into my hold. I gripped his legs and forced them to his chest, then spread them wide, and his cock perked up in his undershorts, at that. When I ran my flesh thumb along his thigh, the gunslinger still in its glove holding his other leg in place, he shivered. I almost wanted to tell him then and there to cut it out with the act. It was too much. He expected me to believe he’d get chills, just from that? Who did he think I was?

I pushed on his knees until they were as close to the mattress as he could bend, then drew my hand back and gave him a solid smack on the ass. He choked on his breath but recovered quickly. 

"Perhaps it was not simply precaution that inspired you to tie me up, hm?" he teased, flexing as if to present his rear for another swat. I wouldn’t humor him. 

"Assumin’ an ideal set of circumstances, what exactly is it you’d want me to do?" Thus far, he hadn’t made any direct requests, merely insinuations. How much would it take to get something concrete out of him?

"I am not so naïve as to believe I would get  _everything_  I want.” I hated his coy face, the way his hair had fallen across his brow. I hated the way he arched towards me, playing the provocateur, trying to present himself attractively in his undershirt and shorts. I waited until the silence stretched out between us before inclining my head in instigation. 

He shrugged and looked to the side before meeting my stare. 

"I suppose I would like for you to, oh, how should I put it? I… I want a long, slow fuck. I want to feel it tomorrow. I want you to fuck me like you mean it, mon grand, and I want to feel like it will never end." 

I wanted him to quit simpering. 

When I ran my hand over his folded clothes, it was easy enough to find the shape of his knife, hidden in the sleeve of his coat. I drew it out, and saw his brow furrow. I imagined he was trying to work out whether the system would allow him to be killed by his own weapon, if it was wielded by an enemy.  Truth is, I didn’t write that code. I wasn’t entirely sure myself. But I wasn’t trying to kill him. 

I trailed the tip of the blade from his knee to the hem of his shorts, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to draw a fine white line. He sucked in a breath. I pushed up his undershirt, and took stock of all the scars already present on his abdomen. Tracing them with the knife made his pulse quicken where I could feel it through his ribs. He licked his lips and watched me, gasping when the blade touched one of his nipples, and swallowing heavily when it reached his throat. 

"Looks like I’m not the first man afforded this opportunity," I drawled, pressing the knife to that scar on his neck. 

"The circumstances then were quite different," he croaked, trying not to move too much. I pressed until his eyes widened in delayed panic, then pulled off. Knelt over him, I watched him pant through his nose. Then I bunched the undershirt at his front, neckline to hem, and cut it off of him. 

He nearly shouted, but stifled it at the last moment, consciously relaxing his nerves and peering to see the damage I’d done. I pushed the flaps of cloth out of the way and smoothed my hands down his bare chest. His heart hammered under my palm. 

He hissed when I pinched his nipples, and grunted when I brushed thumbs under his waistband. Overall, he was wonderfully reactive, and I wondered how long he could keep up the charade.

He even lifted his hips when I began removing his shorts, and then lay there, naked and erect, with his thighs spread to allow me between. It rather looked like he was trying not to smile, the damned snake in the grass, and I couldn’t help but think that if he was trying to blackmail me, his constant beseechments wouldn’t sound so good on tape. So who was he trying to fool?

"Please, won’t you… I’d love to suck your cock. Won’t you let me?"

He was blushing again, and he looked pained to have stated his wishes so clearly. I thought it over. I didn’t think he’d have constructed that whole ruse, or gone that far, if he meant to bite me. What could he possibly do from that position? Did I want him to? Other than the obvious physical reactions, what would I get out of it?

I thought about the sight of him, choking on me, tied down and still wanting, and working for my pleasure. I thought about dominating him like that, subjugating him to my desires, making him beg. Already he was dangerously close to that point, and even though I knew it was an act, I wondered if I could blur the lines until he lost the little game he’d started, got so wrapped up in it that even he lost track of his goals. But what would do that? Certainly, I’d have to watch myself when following his suggestions. And, much as I’d have liked to gag him with my equipment, I went for something else.

He nearly howled when I slid down his body to suck him into my mouth. His legs kicked against the blanket and his hands flexed uselessly in their bonds. It wasn’t something I had a great deal of experience with, so his acting was definitely over-much. He thrashed and moaned epithets, his hips bucking sporadically against my face. I wasn’t doing anything special, just testing him methodically for sensitive areas, working almost algorithmically along his flesh. Better reactions were catalogued mentally, for later revisitation. Though, I had to adjust my parameters for his overly enthusiastic display; it was certain to throw off my data. 

He began to make sounds of panic, but I only glanced up when his hips began to twist, trying to shake me off of him. I raised my brows at him, still sucking at the head, and he whined, craning his head back. 

"Monsieur, I fear that if you, if you do not stop, I am going to embarass myself!" He carried on as though he was in dire straits, making his thighs twitch and his knees shake. "Please, please, I am going to come! If you don’t— if you—!" I figured he was tired of this part of the game, and wanted to steer it back on track, back to his agenda, whatever that may have been. So I kept at it. " _Non, Monsieur, s’il te plait!_  I am going to come down your throat, I am going to— I, I’m—  _Oh…_ " and his body rolled once, and his toes dug into the cot, and he came, as he warned, down my throat, across my tongue, against my lips, and even down my chin. He shuddered theatrically with each pulse, his eyelids fluttering, groaning deep, and long. I wondered, could he really come on command like that? How often had he pulled schemes like this? 

He slumped into his ties when it was over, and I wiped my face against his thigh. He didn’t seem to care. He just lay there, panting, eyes half-lidded, flushed, sweating, with a perfect facsimilie of a blissful expression across his face. 

He swallowed, and licked his lips. 

"Something I can do for you?" he asked muzzily, as if not yet come back to his wits. It looked like orgasm wasn’t enough to unsettle him. 

So I reached into a drawer, and felt around until I hit the bottle of mineral oil I used for the base of my home-made axle grease. Good enough, I thought, and shook some out onto my glove. Truth be told I hadn’t ever done the sort of thing I was preparing to do, but I understood the basic mechanics of it. There was really only one logical way it could go, and besides, I’d seen a proctologist before so I had a general idea of what to do.

He leaned into my touch as soon as I pressed my lubed glove against him. Clearly, he’d done this before because he knew just how to relax his muscles, how to cant his hips, how to make it easy. My digits slipped right in, the thick glove rounding out the gunslinger’s angles, and he gave quiet instruction as I moved:

"Ah, yes, like that, a little higher, so close, please, deeper, almost, YES, THERE,  _ohhh_ , yes, harder, please, more.” 

What was he planning? What could he accomplish by being bound and naked with my fingers in his ass? I watched his face, sure he’d betray something, but his act was seamless. He moaned as my robotic hand drilled his prostate with mechanical precision. His mouth was stretched wide, almost as if he was in pain, still red to his throat, and shining with sweat. 

“ _Oh,_  mon dieu, mon dieu, c’est presque trop!”

"Too much?" I echoed, translating. I’d hate for him to spin this so it sounded like I’d taken liberties. But, he complained when I eased off. 

“ _No,_  don’t you stop, don’t you dare stop!” he growled, some of that battlefield conviction seeping through. So, whatever I was doing was in keeping with his plans. He rocked his body toward my hand, grunting each time he did, and pleaded for more, always, more. I kept reapplying lubricant to my gloved digits, trying to ease the way, because he would not be satisfied. Or so he made it seem. 

For a brief, delirious moment, I wondered if perhaps his Medic  and Demoman had installed some sort of explosive device in the Spy’s innards, set to go off only when his prostate was rubbed just so. He and I would respawn, but all of my plans and prototypes would be obliterated. 

Was it really so ludicrous a thought? Our Medic had kept this Spy’s undying head in a refrigerator. Our Heavy was outfitted with a megababoon heart. Would it really be so far-fetched to imagine that BLU would send him on a suicide mission to destroy my workshop? He hadn’t spent very long trying to seduce me. Why, he could have gotten the orders just that morning. 

My perceptions of him were such that I wouldn’t have previously believed he’d agree too easily to something that messy. I would think he’d pride his own skills enough for him to prefer accomplishing the end goal by his own means. But, of course, my tried-and-true method of dealing with Spies is to anticipate everything except what I would expect. 

With the technology of the Medigun, he wouldn’t even have visible sutures, I thought.

Then again, his flesh would provide something of a cushion to the explosion, like the rain of organs that happens rather frequently on the field. “Giblets”, as some of the team affectionately calls them, have never damaged my machines.

Which, by the way, would be largely protected from the blast radius by their tarps.

Really, I’d only have to worry about my blueprints, and other papery ephemera tacked to the wall. 

And of course, he would have to have known that, and I’m sure his Demoman would have known that, so I decided they wouldn’t have done it, based solely on the unlikelihood of efficacy. Then, I felt a little annoyed with myself for even coming up with such a thing.

All while I had four mechanical digits buried deep inside him, stretching him open and making him gasp. His hands clenched into fists, immobile, and his heels skidding across the cot. 

"Ohh, Monsieur, you will have me erect again in no time at all!" He sucked his lip into his mouth, and released it on a long moan. "There is a joke in there about your talent for erecting other things at great speed, but I’m— OH, YES, like that, like that! … I’m not going looking for it. I can’t. I can’t even, oh, please, Monsieur, give me everything, your whole hand, please, please!"

I wanted to know what all this ‘Monsieur’ business was about. Did he think he was being cute?

But, with a little more mineral oil, my rubber-kitted gunslinger slipped into him, and I wondered if maybe that was easier than taking my flesh hand. The mechanical digits are harsher, less gentle. They’re also less thick. In addition to that, I can’t rotate my wrist bones 360 degrees. 

Centimeter by centimeter, I spun the gunslinger hand inside him, slowly stretching him out. The sounds he made seemed torn from his throat, or from somewhere deeper. He’s a good actor, I’ll give him that; if I didn’t have the experience I’ve had with him, I might have believed him. 

When the going got easier, I could start pushing my hand in and out of him. Already I was sunk in up to the wrist, but he took it all. Greedily, even. His body arched toward me, and encouragements poured off of him like the sweat soaking into the flannel blanket. 

"Oh, that is  _wonderful,_ " he gushed, his head thrown back and the exertion making his hair lose its slicked-back tameness, loose curls springing up to fall around his ears. "I never imagined that mechanical hand of yours would feel like  _this_ … when you’re not eviscerating me with it.” 

"I could eviscerate you, yet."

"Such a romantic," the Spy tutted through gasping breaths. 

The faster I moved, the higher his pitch went, as he moaned and whined with each exhale. I moved my other hand from his thigh, and touched his stretched skin. 

"My god," he whispered, as I fingered the edge of his hole and thrust my gunslinger into him again. "It is so sensitive. I’m stretched so wide and I feel so full… Oh, but  _please,_  I want to feel you, skin to skin. I want to feel your cock inside me, hard and pulsing, and I want you to finish within me.” 

Not so hard now, to say all these things. I mentally congratulated myself for seeing through his feigned shyness, before. Considering, I moved my fingers inside of him, making him writhe on the cot. 

"You know, most men respond well to begging," he urged. "But I suppose I am not as— OH mon dieu, oh, oh FUCK, ENGINEER! I’m… What was I saying…?"

"About begging," I replied. He didn’t use ‘monsieur’, that time. 

"OH! Oh, yes. I was, wasn’t I?" He spoke as if with difficulty. "I haven’t much practice, in that. So perhaps I— OH GOD! You did that just to interrupt me, I know it!" His eyes were tightly shut, and he spoke through clenched teeth as I flickered my fingers around. 

Maybe I had. Was he getting annoyed that I wasn’t going along with his plan? The fact that he was rising to hardness this soon after his orgasm, though, indicated that he would keep going until I penetrated him the way he wanted me to. It wouldn’t be enough to get him off a second time. 

I withdrew my gloved hand from inside of him, to the sound of a long, sustained groan. It came away surprisingly clean, which meant he’d prepared for this, and washed himself out thoroughly. So much for his claims of ‘only wanting a kiss, at first’. He’d planned this, and he’d expected me to fall right into his trap. 

I pulled the glove off with a snap and tossed it, inside out, in the bin beneath my drafting table, then reached for a few more cords. He didn’t protest when I bound his legs into a bent position, ankle to thigh, and then thigh down to the same steel bars that bound his wrists. It kept his legs from moving, and spread them, wide open. 

"I feel so empty," the Spy whined. Even if he  _wasn’t_  faking, he was awfully demanding. “Maybe one day you will trust me enough to let me undress you.”

I snorted at him. Already he thought there was going to be a  _next time_. Insolent little sneak. I unclasped my overalls and let them fall to my hips, and he watched, as if hungry. Pushing them and my shorts down to my knees, I was reaching for the mineral oil when he jolted.

"Won’t you at least open your shirt for me?" he pleaded, and I thought through what he could gain from that. He’d see some scars, mostly, the shape of my body. Was he trying to map something out? What was he trying to discern? "I want to see the body I’ve been imagining for so long," he insisted. Lord, he wasn’t even trying to be believable anymore. But, as I couldn’t figure what he really wanted with it, I decided to test my luck, and unbuttoned my shirt. I thought, maybe I could guess what he was trying to get out of it, by how he reacted.

No dice. His eyes roved my skin and he moaned when I slipped my shirt off of my shoulders. He betrayed nothing, looking the absolute picture of the appreciative lover. He was infuriating. I felt a little encumbered with my overalls and drawers around my knees, but assured myself that he was worse off, tied as he was. 

"Mon dieu," the Spy breathed. "Je veux faire avec toi ce que le printemps fait avec les cerisiers."

I blinked at him. He couldn’t be so far gone if he was coming up with lines like that. Good gravy, it was actually embarassin’ to think about the meaning behind what he said… If he wanted to ‘do to me what Spring does to cherries’,  that was just… He would say somethin’ like that, just to throw me off. It was one thing to beg to be fucked, but saying vague things like that, in a language other than my native tongue, meant I’d have to think about it. I’d have to translate and then digest it. He would do something like that, just to prove he was still on his game. 

I reached for the mineral oil again, determined to fuck that stupid look off his face. He watched me slick up my cock with wide eyes, licking his lips and arching his hips. When I grasped it and aligned myself, he squirmed in his bonds, and I wondered if he had serious reservations about all of this. But then he writhed again, and whined, and flexed his fingers and toes. 

"Please, please," he panted. "Why do you insist upon teasing me? Oh, it isn’t fair, you are so close!" 

"You’re one to talk about fairness, Spook," I commented, but he wouldn’t hear it. He just made high-pitched sounds in his throat until I started pushing into him. He was well-stretched and ready, and I slipped in easily, to a chorus of his moans and encouragements.

I was fully seated and taking a moment to appreciate the simple body feeling of it, the common, pedestrian sensation a man gets when he’s balls-deep in a hot, tight, grip, when he began slowly clenching around me, again and again. 

"You are quite thick," he said, strangled. 

Flattery wouldn’t get him anywhere, though it was very difficult to ignore the fluttering of his muscles, wrapping around my cock and squeezing at the base.

"I know that sounds daft, as I recently took your fist, but… You are very thick." He looked up at my goggles and gave a weak smile. "I hope you won’t accuse me of being a size queen."

I wasn’t even sure what he meant by that, and it rankled. It was simpler to just pull out of him, paying no mind to his sustained groan, then buck back in, rather than trying to find an answer for him. It seemed to have the desired effect, anyway. His mouth hung open while I snapped my hips against his bared ass, and his legs shook in what little slack the cords afforded him. His hair was an absolute mess from his tossing and thrashing, sticking up in the back. He was hard again, and his erection lay flushed against his belly, the hair there slicked down in places by a wet smear leaking from his tip. I gripped his thighs for purchase, and sped my hips. 

He began to shout. 

Each time I thrust into his willing body, he barked out a short sound, rising in volume all the time. Perhaps that was his plan: to alert the team to my liason with an enemy, to humiliate me and have me summarily dismissed. But, when I fished my bandana from my back pocket and stuffed it into his gaping mouth, he didn’t try to spit it out. He bit down on it and moaned into the cloth. 

I was leaving bruises on his hip with my gunslinger, I was sure, when I hefted his lower half as high as the ties would allow and curled over him, moving ever faster. He didn’t have to know I rather liked the look of him like that, bound, gagged, and sweating all over. If I thought about nothing but the image, I might even come soon. It wasn’t the way he’d moaned and begged and carried on that had gotten me hard in the first place; it was the way he squirmed in his bonds, hands and feet flexing, curving his back to try and get what he wanted. Usually, he had a certain kind of power, on the field, when he was invisible. It let him catch people unawares, let him move through spaces as he pleased. But, bound and exposed, with even the inside of his body open and explored, mapped out, schematized, he had no more secrets. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. 

I lurched forward and bit his shoulder, and his cry was muffled by the kerchief. Still, he tilted his head to the side and offered his neck to me, so I bit him again, feeling his flesh giving, and the way the skin stuck to my teeth when I pulled away. The bite marks were perfect, livid, then, but as the indentation evened out, they would turn red, even purple, little rings charting my dentition. He rolled his hips into me and lifted his shoulder, and when I bit him a third time, he arched and shivered, and continued to moan, even when I lingered, tightening my jaw, delivering what I knew would become a deep green bruise, in a little while. 

His responses remained positive as I closed my teeth over his skin again and again, turning his shoulder into a blotchy pattern of bite, and bruise, and angry red flush. It did not seem that I could hurt him too much. He received it all, and begged wordlessly for more. Was he really such a masochist, or was he skilled at playing the part?

In any case, his body drew tighter and tighter as I bit and sucked his neck and shoulder, and he spasmed in his bonds when I flicked his right nipple. Rubbing my thumb over it had him humming around his gag, but I couldn’t keep it up when I bore down, fucking him as hard and as fast as I could. I wanted to see him come apart, I wanted to force an honest reaction out of him. I wanted to break him in half.

Clawing into his back, I grit my teeth, my face buried in his neck. I felt like a teenager, somehow, out of control and fucking madly, losing track of my own mind and concentrating on the pleasure. In those moments, I wasn’t thinking about his plans, I wasn’t thinking about what subterfuge and sabotage awaited me. I thought only about his heat around my cock, his muscles gripping me as I moved, his flesh against my lips, and his scent all around me. My cot would smell like him. His erection brushed my belly as he moved with my thrusts, and he keened through the cloth. God, was this even the same Spy that crept around so silently? He was so loud, so goddamn loud even around that sodden kerchief, and I wanted to smother him to keep him quiet. 

He bumped my face with his chin until I lifted my head to look at him. His eyes were watering, but clear, and he gave me a shaky smile. For a long, strange moment, he remained that way, with this bizarre, soft smile around the bandana and his ice blue eyes trying to find my gaze through my goggles. 

Then he was coming. Again, he shook, and his toes curled, and his head thrashed, and he came all over me. 

But at the same time, I was coming into him, my pace stuttering inside of him as I let myself go over, let myself groan against his ear, let my hands clutch his back and my arms pull us close. It was long and sweet, and I rocked into him, riding it out, for a moment, unthinking. 

He seemed to melt when it was over, his limbs collapsing into the ties, limp. I pulled out of him, and sat back, and watched him pant and shake sweaty hair out of his eyes. 

At length, he lifted his head to look at me, having finally spat the kerchief out. 

"You are far kinkier than I would have thought," he commented lightly, as if he was remarking upon the weather. "Next time, I shall bring my toy box."

Next time.  _Next time_ , he said, the damned presumptuous polecat. 

But instead of shooting him in the head, I untied him, and shooed him out of my workshop. Less blood to clean up, I reasoned. He placed a kiss on my cheek as he cloaked. Damned sneaky bastard.

But that’s just the way it is. That’s the way  _he_  is. I haven’t yet discovered his plot, and it’s driving me up a goddamn wall. 

What’s worse, he  _did_  bring his ‘toy box’ the next time he stole into my workshop like a thief in the night. Turns out, I didn’t need to use the extension cord; he had leather manacles of his own. ‘Course I didn’t trust them, to start, and I tied him with my own materials a second time, but he left the box in my workshop, affording me plenty of opportunity to inspect every goddamn item in there. 

Some of it, I hate to say, I didn’t even recognize. 

But I learned. By inference and context through him, I learned. And he willingly submits, still, to any implement, any whim. Once, to test just how far he’d go for this game of his, I built a personal massager to his exact measurements. I put a powerful gyroscopic motor in the thing, so it shook like hell when attached to a power source. 

He looked at me like I was giving him the goddamn Hope Diamond. 

"I can’t believe you built something like  _that,_  for  _me,_ " he whispered, reaching for it like it was a newborn child. 

Sometimes he begs for it. He calls it “my favourite invention,” and “our mechanical friend,” and a host of other things. He might have almost as many nicknames for that dang vibrator as he does for me. Is his whole purpose just to annoy me? 

I continue to test him, trying new avenues to discover what he’s planning. So far all I’ve learned is that he will take any pain doled to him without complaint, which makes me wonder at what kind of torture resistance training he’d had prior to this job, and that he has fillings in his back two molars in the lower jaw. Well. He’s also indicated that his ribs can be fairly ticklish, but as it doesn’t seem to be constant, that, too, may be an act. 

And he’ll waltz on into my workshop any old time. I usually know when he’s there, due to a series of alarms I’d installed for just this sort of occasion, but sometimes, he’ll remain cloaked for a long while, standing quietly in a corner, watching. He does not move, in these times. He doesn’t inspect my machinery, he doesn’t note down the contents of my desk. He merely stands. Observing me. No matter what I do. 

Even if I bring out sensitive blueprints, even if my team mates come to call, we will remain silent, and still, and as yet, I have not alerted him to the fact that I know he is there. He will reveal himself to me, some time later, and I have not yet discerned the pattern.  

One time, I sat on that cot, tuning my guitar. He stood in the corner, as expected, immobile. I began to play, and I chose the song carefully. 

It didn’t fit the mood, specifically, but I couldn’t get the song out of my head. Really, it was a little too upbeat, for him. I didn’t look in his direction, as I sang the words I knew, a tune by Elvis Presley. 

"You look like an angel, walk like an angel… Talk like an angel, but I got wise— you’re the devil in disguise, oh yes you are, devil in disguise…" 

I heard a brief intake of breath, and wondered how he’d react to the first verse:

"You fooled me with your kisses, you cheated and you schemed, heaven knows how you lied to me, you’re not the way you seemed."

He didn’t stay for the final chorus. By the time I got to “heaven help me I didn’t see, the devil in your eyes,” he was gone.

I didn’t see him for a long while after that. Not in my workshop, and, for a time, not even on the field. That bothered me, more than anything else— that he wasn’t even doing his job. It forced strange thoughts into my mind; the idea that maybe he… I didn’t want to even think it. 

Only when BLU began to lose badly did he resume sapping my sentries and severing my spinal cord with a well-placed shiv. 

But, the first time I saw him, when he decloaked and I  _saw_  him, he stared me down as he cut out my throat, and I realized, I’d never seen him look so sad. 

But, he’s a man of many faces. I know I can’t trust a heartbroken look on the face of a Spy. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y’all enjoyed. This was kind-of different for me. Let me know what you thought! And, as usual, you can find me on tumblr if you want more stuff. c:


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